R.I.P. Jack
I sat by a woman who was in charge of billing. She, Julie, shuffled paperwork and generally made small talk about general topics. Weather. Television. Movies. Julie made an attempt at an occasional joke. The problem was, I was sitting next to - nearly sharing a cubicle with - a person I had absolutely nothing in common with other than the payor address on our pay stubs. Our taste in movies, television and even weather was as differing as I suppose it could get. Her jokes weren’t very good either. It made the days go slower than necessary. (I had to get up and actually go to someone’s desk to have any passable chat. It’s not like I was going to sit in my chair for 8 straight hours and work. No way.)
We sat in the same shared space for eleven months before we found a common topic to share: dogs. Julie, at the time, had four. Two Saint Bernards, a basset hound and a mutt that adopted them. Her husband and two kids didn’t seem to mind sharing their three-bedroom double wide with the dogs, and shortly after my discovery, a cat was purchased. I always liked dogs and even once had a few. I knew what Saint Bernards looked like and Basset Hounds were on my shoes when I was five. That was good enough for me.
We talked for a good three or four hours, over the course of a week, before we exhausted that line. Another month or so passed when Julie mentioned her husband wanted to get a Bulldog. An English Bulldog, not a Pit bull, which are generally found in double wides. I had a bulldog years prior, so I jumped at the chance to offer my bounty of advice.
The Rules: 1. Don’t leave them outside. They don’t ventilate well and it can kill them easily. 2. Don’t feed them tablescraps. Bulldogs tend too put on weight easily. 3. Don’t pimp them out for fighting. That’s just mean. 4. Bathe them often. Bulldogs tend to stink. 5. Be prepared to spend some serious money on him at the vet. The cheaper the dog was to buy the more expensive they are at the vet.
Eventually Julie came in with pictures of the pup they found and he was not unlike any other bulldog pup; wrinkles, fat and cute. I would ask for updates on occasion to break the silence. She would complain of the smell and the shedding. Shedding is what brought them to get rid of Jack and when I found out they wanted to unload him, I called dibs. Julie said to come out to take a look at Jack the following Thursday.
The only picture I ever saw of him was his kennel picture. This was before digital cameras were cheap and common, so they didn’t get many pictures of him. I asked a friend to come along with her opinion so I wouldn’t make an expensive mistake, just in case Jack was genetic mess. As I drove to Rowlett, I had no idea what to expect.
We pulled up to a trailer house on an open lot. I remember most of the houses lacked fences and there were dogs running about. I kept an eye out for a bulldog running loose. In Dallas, a stray bulldog would be a stray for all of five minutes. Out here, probably a bit longer. It wouldn’t have surprised me in the least. Kristi gave me a look. It was late, about 8:30, and Julie saw the lights pull up. She met us on the edge of the rail-less deck and invited us in. As we stepped through the door, Julie’s son was on the couch with a St. Bernard - a big one - on his lap. Neither one looked to take too much notice of a guest in the house. A basset hound came trotting into the living room with a deep bark. He approached Kristi with a deep whiff and dismissed us as a non-threat. Julie showed us to the kitchen around the corner and went to get the bulldog.
My last bulldog’s name was Cochese. He was lean and lanky (for the breed) and was good in heat (for the breed). He was an amazing lapdog. He liked nothing more than laying with his head in your lap as you drove or watched TV. Unfortunately, my stepmother, whom I lived with, didn’t care for him as much as the rest of us did, so it was a short-lived friendship. I have seen other bulldogs that looked more like a small boxer. Longer legs, leaner chest and a pronounced snout made them look less like a bulldog that I would have thought possible. With the leaner, longer features came more mobility and endurance to heat and play. It was a bit of a trade-off. Either you got a conversation piece in the form of a “classic” big-headed, mush-faced English, or you got a more athletic, resilient and active companion. I prefer the stockier model myself.
Julie returned, and the first thing I noticed with her was another, different St. Bernard. Bigger than the first and he didn’t look pleased. He came right up to my sternum and put his fist-sized nose in my crotch. I pressed against the counter as far back as I could and offered the beast my palm. Kristi squealed. Julie giggled, taking in the sight of a grown man about to be eaten alive. Kristi squealed again, this time kneeling down below my line of vision. The bulldog. In my terror, I forgot about the bulldog. Julie called off the big red beast and I saw Jack for the first time.
Kristi was kneeling down, scratching Jack with vigor just above his tail (what there was of it). Jack was enjoying every second of it, turning and bending his head to meet the scratching as if he was trying to get a good look at what felt so wonderful. I say bending, as if one could bend a fire plug. Jack was about the stockiest dog - bar none - I had seen up to that point. He was by-the-book stocky. It was as if from head to haunch, his skeleton was one heavy bone. He was about two feet long and weighed in at 50 pounds. I gasped at the sight of him. To me he was perfect. I was sold. His coat was red brindle. He had a brilliant white chest and forelegs. His face was white, save the brindle patch over his right eye. His jaw jutted just beyond his broad muzzle, framed by a tiny black sliver of a bottom lip. His tongue was hanging to one side in ecstasy at Kristi’s scratching. When she eased up, noticing that with the scratching, his shed fur was forming a pile at his feet, Jack would snort and paw at her, in a desperate plea for more. He was oblivious to him impending baldness. Kristi stood up and as soon as she did, Jack was spinning around, head cocked, looking for the next person in line to scratch him into euphoria.
He waddled up to me playfully, pawing at the air as he approached. He was showing his age. Jack was only one year old and had reached his full size. According to Julie, he was the runt with an undersized windpipe, so per the breeder, he was fixed as soon as they could get it done. A soon as he reached me he spun around, offering his butt. The first thing I noticed was how coarse his coat was on his wrinkled, rolling back. Then his smell. Jack stinks. His torso was also rock-solid. I scratched his ass a few seconds. That was all it took to form a pile of fur above his tail again. He did shed quite a bit. And stink. No problem here. So do I, I thought. I scratched behind his ears and his tongue shot out. He let out a firm grunt. Kristi giggled. I shot her a glance and she was grinning ear to ear. It would be hard to keep a straight face around Jack. I grabbed him around the chest and lifted him to see how he liked being held and to check his weight. It was shocking to feel what 50 pounds felt like in a such a short frame. People still find it amazing the he weighs as much as he does (about 45 now, due to the diet I keep him on). He went as limp as he could have as I lifted him onto my bent knee. Completely docile and comfortable. Jack sniffed on my arm as I held him there, looking at his face. His teeth were in good shape, his nose a bit dry. The large fold above his nose was clean underneath, so I knew that his smell was skin related and not because he was dirty. I scratched his face able his eyes and on the “bridge” of his snout. I set him down and asked Julie a few more questions.
He had his balls removed and a cherry eye (swollen tissue in the corner of the eye socket) removed about 3 months prior (a common treatment with bullies). So far, he was very healthy. He regularly ran with the other dogs, he wasn’t aggressive, and he even tolerated cats. His only real issue was his inability to climb the stairs of the deck or get up on the couch. He didn’t bark and was housebroken (to this day I can count on one hand the number of times he messed in the house). I asked Julie what the going rate was for a slightly-used stinky bulldog. $250 to cover the surgeries was fair to her, so he shook on it and I produced the cash. When I was handing over the money, I noticed Julie’s youngest son watching from around the corner. I promised him I would take good care of Jack and he would be available to play with whenever his Mom brought them over.
We loaded Jack into the cab of my car. Kristi held him in her lap on the way back to Dallas. It occurred to me that I never asked Kristi her opinion until I arrived at the house. The giggle in the kitchen was all I needed. When we got out of the car, there was yet another decent collection of fur in the cab and on Kristi. This was going to be a theme with Jack...
(JACK IS NOT DEAD)
We sat in the same shared space for eleven months before we found a common topic to share: dogs. Julie, at the time, had four. Two Saint Bernards, a basset hound and a mutt that adopted them. Her husband and two kids didn’t seem to mind sharing their three-bedroom double wide with the dogs, and shortly after my discovery, a cat was purchased. I always liked dogs and even once had a few. I knew what Saint Bernards looked like and Basset Hounds were on my shoes when I was five. That was good enough for me.
We talked for a good three or four hours, over the course of a week, before we exhausted that line. Another month or so passed when Julie mentioned her husband wanted to get a Bulldog. An English Bulldog, not a Pit bull, which are generally found in double wides. I had a bulldog years prior, so I jumped at the chance to offer my bounty of advice.
The Rules: 1. Don’t leave them outside. They don’t ventilate well and it can kill them easily. 2. Don’t feed them tablescraps. Bulldogs tend too put on weight easily. 3. Don’t pimp them out for fighting. That’s just mean. 4. Bathe them often. Bulldogs tend to stink. 5. Be prepared to spend some serious money on him at the vet. The cheaper the dog was to buy the more expensive they are at the vet.
Eventually Julie came in with pictures of the pup they found and he was not unlike any other bulldog pup; wrinkles, fat and cute. I would ask for updates on occasion to break the silence. She would complain of the smell and the shedding. Shedding is what brought them to get rid of Jack and when I found out they wanted to unload him, I called dibs. Julie said to come out to take a look at Jack the following Thursday.
The only picture I ever saw of him was his kennel picture. This was before digital cameras were cheap and common, so they didn’t get many pictures of him. I asked a friend to come along with her opinion so I wouldn’t make an expensive mistake, just in case Jack was genetic mess. As I drove to Rowlett, I had no idea what to expect.
We pulled up to a trailer house on an open lot. I remember most of the houses lacked fences and there were dogs running about. I kept an eye out for a bulldog running loose. In Dallas, a stray bulldog would be a stray for all of five minutes. Out here, probably a bit longer. It wouldn’t have surprised me in the least. Kristi gave me a look. It was late, about 8:30, and Julie saw the lights pull up. She met us on the edge of the rail-less deck and invited us in. As we stepped through the door, Julie’s son was on the couch with a St. Bernard - a big one - on his lap. Neither one looked to take too much notice of a guest in the house. A basset hound came trotting into the living room with a deep bark. He approached Kristi with a deep whiff and dismissed us as a non-threat. Julie showed us to the kitchen around the corner and went to get the bulldog.
My last bulldog’s name was Cochese. He was lean and lanky (for the breed) and was good in heat (for the breed). He was an amazing lapdog. He liked nothing more than laying with his head in your lap as you drove or watched TV. Unfortunately, my stepmother, whom I lived with, didn’t care for him as much as the rest of us did, so it was a short-lived friendship. I have seen other bulldogs that looked more like a small boxer. Longer legs, leaner chest and a pronounced snout made them look less like a bulldog that I would have thought possible. With the leaner, longer features came more mobility and endurance to heat and play. It was a bit of a trade-off. Either you got a conversation piece in the form of a “classic” big-headed, mush-faced English, or you got a more athletic, resilient and active companion. I prefer the stockier model myself.
Julie returned, and the first thing I noticed with her was another, different St. Bernard. Bigger than the first and he didn’t look pleased. He came right up to my sternum and put his fist-sized nose in my crotch. I pressed against the counter as far back as I could and offered the beast my palm. Kristi squealed. Julie giggled, taking in the sight of a grown man about to be eaten alive. Kristi squealed again, this time kneeling down below my line of vision. The bulldog. In my terror, I forgot about the bulldog. Julie called off the big red beast and I saw Jack for the first time.
Kristi was kneeling down, scratching Jack with vigor just above his tail (what there was of it). Jack was enjoying every second of it, turning and bending his head to meet the scratching as if he was trying to get a good look at what felt so wonderful. I say bending, as if one could bend a fire plug. Jack was about the stockiest dog - bar none - I had seen up to that point. He was by-the-book stocky. It was as if from head to haunch, his skeleton was one heavy bone. He was about two feet long and weighed in at 50 pounds. I gasped at the sight of him. To me he was perfect. I was sold. His coat was red brindle. He had a brilliant white chest and forelegs. His face was white, save the brindle patch over his right eye. His jaw jutted just beyond his broad muzzle, framed by a tiny black sliver of a bottom lip. His tongue was hanging to one side in ecstasy at Kristi’s scratching. When she eased up, noticing that with the scratching, his shed fur was forming a pile at his feet, Jack would snort and paw at her, in a desperate plea for more. He was oblivious to him impending baldness. Kristi stood up and as soon as she did, Jack was spinning around, head cocked, looking for the next person in line to scratch him into euphoria.
He waddled up to me playfully, pawing at the air as he approached. He was showing his age. Jack was only one year old and had reached his full size. According to Julie, he was the runt with an undersized windpipe, so per the breeder, he was fixed as soon as they could get it done. A soon as he reached me he spun around, offering his butt. The first thing I noticed was how coarse his coat was on his wrinkled, rolling back. Then his smell. Jack stinks. His torso was also rock-solid. I scratched his ass a few seconds. That was all it took to form a pile of fur above his tail again. He did shed quite a bit. And stink. No problem here. So do I, I thought. I scratched behind his ears and his tongue shot out. He let out a firm grunt. Kristi giggled. I shot her a glance and she was grinning ear to ear. It would be hard to keep a straight face around Jack. I grabbed him around the chest and lifted him to see how he liked being held and to check his weight. It was shocking to feel what 50 pounds felt like in a such a short frame. People still find it amazing the he weighs as much as he does (about 45 now, due to the diet I keep him on). He went as limp as he could have as I lifted him onto my bent knee. Completely docile and comfortable. Jack sniffed on my arm as I held him there, looking at his face. His teeth were in good shape, his nose a bit dry. The large fold above his nose was clean underneath, so I knew that his smell was skin related and not because he was dirty. I scratched his face able his eyes and on the “bridge” of his snout. I set him down and asked Julie a few more questions.
He had his balls removed and a cherry eye (swollen tissue in the corner of the eye socket) removed about 3 months prior (a common treatment with bullies). So far, he was very healthy. He regularly ran with the other dogs, he wasn’t aggressive, and he even tolerated cats. His only real issue was his inability to climb the stairs of the deck or get up on the couch. He didn’t bark and was housebroken (to this day I can count on one hand the number of times he messed in the house). I asked Julie what the going rate was for a slightly-used stinky bulldog. $250 to cover the surgeries was fair to her, so he shook on it and I produced the cash. When I was handing over the money, I noticed Julie’s youngest son watching from around the corner. I promised him I would take good care of Jack and he would be available to play with whenever his Mom brought them over.
We loaded Jack into the cab of my car. Kristi held him in her lap on the way back to Dallas. It occurred to me that I never asked Kristi her opinion until I arrived at the house. The giggle in the kitchen was all I needed. When we got out of the car, there was yet another decent collection of fur in the cab and on Kristi. This was going to be a theme with Jack...
(JACK IS NOT DEAD)
posted by M. E. Davis at 5:51 PM
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